


pretty, poised.

by sweetsinnerchild



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Drugging, Grooming, Literal objectification, M/M, parental incest, please heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 01:18:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9049417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetsinnerchild/pseuds/sweetsinnerchild
Summary: An object only exists when perceived, after all.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Again, please heed the warnings.
> 
> Tried a new format, tell me how it goes.
> 
> this fic was born out of a convo between me and quiet, excellent sinning duo
> 
> Recommended OST: [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyhrYis509A)

His sternum is itchy.

* * *

> The clock on his wall is gone.
> 
> Granted, many things in his room are gone. His bookshelf had been moved, probably to Papyrus' room; his mattress, worn and springy, replaced by a luxurious bed, soft and foreign. Father had refurbished the room from something Sans once called his own into something that matched his ideals, his aesthetics. Those aesthetics apparently does not include a clock.
> 
> He doesn't know whether it's better or worse, having nothing to track the passage of time. He thinks of the unbearable wait, of looking at the clock only to see the minute hand move inch by incremental inch, thinks how seconds would distort themselves into minutes and hours and days, the steady drip-drip-drip of time trickling away. Maybe it would only bring him false hope, to count down until an impossible rescue occurs; maybe it would only bring him despair, to know how long he has been trapped here and how less likely it would be for anyone to find him. 
> 
> Even so - for all his ruminations, it doesn't matter if he knows what time it is.
> 
> An object only exists when perceived, after all.

* * *

_don’t think about it_ , he tells himself. The itch feels like a lone ant, coursing around in haphazard circles in the same spot.  _don’t think._

* * *

> Papyrus discovers him, one day.  
> 
> "A doll," Father tells his brother. "It's very dear to me." 
> 
> A doll, Papyrus hears, and Sans knows that dolls are meant to be played with. 
> 
> And play Papyrus does, lifting Sans' hand to curl around a porcelain teacup, uncomfortably warm with piping hot tea. He spends his free afternoons arranging Sans in various positions according to any situation he fancied - and Sans spends his time staring at his brother and wondering if he remembers, if he knows. 
> 
> These are the hands that fed you when you were still a baby bones, he wanted to say. These are the arms that hugged you and kept you warm. These are the legs I used to walk you around the house, because when has Father ever bothered to?
> 
> Do you remember, Sans thinks. Your own brother. Please remember.
> 
> Papyrus doesn't.

> Gaster does.
> 
> "You grew up so pretty." Gaster tells him almost longingly and tugs gently at the ribbons of the dress Papyrus had selected for the day. The satin slides soundlessly out of the painstakingly crafted bow, undoing his brother's hard work. Embarrassment has become a mere hum in the back of Sans' mind as he was manhandled and bathed, as he was dressed in clothes he would have never wanted to wear. They are often itchy against his bones, stiff with their newness and tight with their corsets and ribbons - a stark contrast to his own comfortable hoodies and pants.
> 
> They were probably all gone. Gaster detests them; Papyrus wouldn't have wanted to wear them.
> 
> "My little doll," Gaster whispers, hot and heavy against his skull, an endearment once chafing and presently sickening. Sans says nothing as Gaster loosens the upper bodice of his dress, can say nothing as his father's long fingers reach down the front of the garment and scratch against his sternum, splaying out to trace lightly the curve of his ribs. He can feel his father's magical construct undulating beneath the many folds of his dress by virtue of sitting on his lap, can feel the bile rise up in his throat.
> 
> He would scream - but screaming is so, so draining when there is nowhere the sound can go.
> 
> "Oh, Sans," Gaster sighs as wet heat seeps into the cracks of Sans' pelvis, and Sans hates himself a little more for being relieved it was over.

* * *

_don’t think don’t think don’t think_

It’s so itchy, he wants to scratch -

_dammit_.

* * *

> The dresser is gone. The treadmill is gone. The curtains are gone.
> 
> He amuses himself by playing this perverse game of spot-the-difference, during the period when Papyrus is at school and Gaster at work, when his existence is only known to himself. Sometimes Papyrus leaves him in different spots in the room after his playtime, allowing him the liberty of discovering new aspects to a room otherwise familiar to him. 
> 
> Then again, perhaps spot-the-difference was far too (depressingly) easy.
> 
> _The carpeting of the floor is the same,_ Sans thinks absently, changing tack. _The window, the glass panes, they're the same. The door, it's the same..._

> Papyrus grows.
> 
> Once, he was smaller - now, he could carry Sans out of the room and into his own bed. Sans marks time in the inches Papyrus passes as he passed through the door of the room, measures the moments as Papyrus lifted him into his arms. He sees the way the house changes over time from the glimpses of the corridor, the stretch of passage between his room and Papyrus'. 
> 
> And yet his brother is still so young, to be sleeping with dolls and clinging onto them at night.
> 
> (Sans cannot begrudge him this contact, this gentle and innocent touch that is nothing like his father's. Being with Papyrus meant being without Gaster.
> 
> And oh, Sans still loved his baby brother so.)
> 
> Papyrus whispers to him about his day under the warmth of the duvet, and Sans pretends he replies. He fills in the pauses that Papyrus takes with his own words, fills in the spaces of his absence from the world with what could have been him. He could have been running around with the other kids on the playground today, he could have been eating his oatmeal at the table, could have been reading a book in the quiet of the library.
> 
> And when Papyrus finally tires and falls asleep, he fills in the silence with a _good night, paps_.
> 
> He fills in the silence with, _i love you_.

* * *

It consumes him, the need to move his arm and scratch, to move that offending stiff piece of lace away from his sternum. The itch intensifies with his impossibility, like how a parched throat would rasp the moment it realizes that there is no water.

He wants to scratch, so badly, so immediately, _but he can’t_.

* * *

> And Papyrus finds out.
> 
> "Another way to play with the doll," Gaster says, his countenance almost paternal, his actions anything but. He pushes in, a smooth glide that sheathes his cock to the hilt, and Sans can see the way Papyrus' eyes are drawn to the bright display of magic. Sans wants to turn his face away, wants to curl up and hide. 
> 
> Nothing changes. Papyrus takes a step, two steps closer. 
> 
> "A new game," Papyrus asks breathlessly.
> 
> "One that we can both play," Gaster agrees, and Sans' own traitorous body would not allow him the dignity of throwing up. 

* * *

_move_ , he screams at his body. _move, you just have to move -_  

* * *

> "Lick him here," Gaster tells Papyrus, bony fingers skimming a straight line over Sans' pubic arch. Something wet follows, hesitant at first, more of a press than an actual lick. 
> 
> "Keep on doing it," and the tongue returns, over and over, rough laps that make Sans want to squeeze his legs close. His magic crackles; the tongue strays, uncertain.
> 
> "Papyrus," a gentle warning, and his brother resumes licking as Sans' magic recognizes the stimulus to pleasure, as it gathers to form an opening. The next stroke delves into the warm and moist construct, and Sans would have shuddered if his body had allowed him to. 
> 
> And all the while Gaster is touching Papyrus, light strokes over the row of his ribs, because this game _has_  to be played naked. Gaster is licking at the back of Papyrus' neck, because he wants him to know how it should be done, to feel how it should be done. Gaster is slipping his hand down to tweak at Papyrus' coccyx, exactly like how he had done so to Sans long ago when Sans was still the master of his own body, and had the sense to slap it away.
> 
> (And when Sans is alone, much later when these new games become part and parcel of Papyrus' repertoire, he doesn't know which world he prefers: a world where his little brother is complicit to his rape, or a world where his little brother is partner to a matching set.)
> 
> Papyrus moans, the sound muffled into the space between Sans' legs. Gaster smiles, and Sans feels his tears flow again. 

* * *

And then, a twitch. 

He sees it before he feels it, the barest twitch of his finger. He would have thought it was an illusion, if not for the way his finger twitches yet again, on the request of his brain. 

And again, and again. 

Papyrus had forgotten to feed him, Sans suddenly realises, breathless and giddy with a hope he never knew he still has. 

Progress is slow, but evident. Sans moves from a single finger, to a hand, to two hands, to the barest jerk of his arm. He works at it, greedily snatching his body's autonomy back from the control of the drug, that accursed white powder that Gaster gave to Papyrus to feed Sans everyday, as if Sans was a pet of sorts. _Faster_ , he tells himself, _faster_ , because Gaster might return for a midnight session and Sans doubts that he can remain a doll through another fucking without throwing up. 

His feet finally moves, to the point where he could swing his legs off the bed and stand -

Only to immediately topple onto the floor, his body unused to handling his own weight on its own. 

It's okay, he tells himself, pain reverberating from every freshly activated receptor that smacked onto the floor with his fall. All he has to do is get to the door. 

And so Sans crawls, the distance to that very door infinitely far, the drag of the carpet upon his bones creating distracting pinpricks of contact up to his mind. He almost wishes for the numbness to return, almost wants to be back in that bed where he was not responsible to himself - but no. No. 

He has a life beyond this. He has possibilities beyond being a fucking _sex doll_ for _his father,_ he has so little to lose and so much to gain -

The door looms in front of him. He reaches up for the handle, reaches out for the life he is going to live. 

It opens. 

* * *

Gaster stands, framed in the doorway, silent and terrible.

* * *

With every touch, pain and pleasure lights up every nerve in his body, singing with the sensations long absent. He pushes at Gaster, tries to push at Gaster, but his arms can do nothing but beat uselessly against the larger skeleton, weak from years of disuse. 

His words, once sharp and witty, desert him - almost as if they have realized the futility of his situation, of his life. 

“I do prefer you immobile,” Gaster tuts, effortlessly holding down Sans by his pelvis and rocking into it. Sans gasps, taking in breaths for words his mouth refuses to say even though it could, even though it should. “I can’t have you escaping if feeding ever slips Papyrus’ mind ever again…"

He shudders to completion, splattering warmth all over Sans’ pelvis and Sans can _feel_ that too.

(He almost wishes he could return to not feeling. Almost.)

“Perhaps a punishment is in order,” Gaster says softly.

* * *

Sans feels it all, when his arm snaps cleanly into two.

* * *

Papyrus wraps his arm around Sans, burying his face into Sans’ dress. He feels guilty for the space where the doll’s left hand was, feels guilty for being so irresponsible.

And Sans, Sans feels nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas y'all


End file.
